


Raptor's Bane

by Redtail53



Series: Bird of Prey [1]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), X-Men (Movieverse)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-31
Updated: 2016-05-31
Packaged: 2018-07-11 10:47:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7045363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Redtail53/pseuds/Redtail53
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ever since he was four, he'd noticed gaps in his memory. Unexplained holes in the passage of time. He would wake in a panic, not even sure of why he was so worked up. Nearly 20 years later, the truth starts to come to light, but it only leaves Clint Barton with more questions than before. Determined to find the answers amid changes he wasn't prepared for, Clint finds his past.</p>
<p>And all the demons with it.</p>
<p>AU!Movie/Comic 'verse</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

If someone asked him what it was like to be in the Circus, he wouldn't be able to tell you much. If someone asked why he'd joined, or how old he'd been, he wouldn't be able to tell you at all. He did know this: he wasn't born into it. He'd once had a family; a father he could never remember (and never seemed to want to), a mother whose voice and face where a distant (but fond) memory and a brother who he had looked up to, as any little brother would. Truthfully, it was only his brother's name that he could recall. Barney had always been there, up until the moment he wasn't. His young mind hadn't quite understood why he wasn't there, nor did he understand fully why his parents weren't there. As he grew older, he learned to hate his brother for leaving him – but that too faded into a naught but a memory. And his brother's name? That faded with time as well.

A person is the sum of their memories. Their experiences: their pain and their joy and all the emotions in-between, when tied to a memory, these make each person who they are. A reason for the type of person they are: what they do, how they act. True, much of this comes from an upbringing as well – but that's another story.

What happens when a person can't remember certain, important things in their lives?  
What then?

Clint Barton had always known about the gaps in his memory, unexplained holes in the passage of time. He would wake up to find that days had gone by, and he would never get a straight answer as to why. Oh yes, the clever and observant Hawk was well aware they were hiding things. He knew he wasn't crazy. But as time passed, he began to believe he was.

There was one time, though, that he woke differently from the other times. He didn't wake calmly, no fluttering of eyelids or some other such nonsense. He sprang up, hyperventilating, the effect of yet another memory that was very quickly fading. His panicked mind slowed as a gentle hand on his shoulder pushed him back down onto the soft mattress, the man's calm voice telling him he would be okay. He realized too late that he couldn't see and he was sore all over, and he asked what had happened. He didn't get any answers, but it wasn't because he was hiding things.

It would many years before he would ever get the long overdue answers.


	2. ONE

_**November 20th, 2009** _ _– Three years before the Battle of Manhattan  
_

_He was cold and shaking with terror._  
Bright lights above messed with his vision, blinding him. He could _feel_ _people moving around; could_ _hear_ _the cold metal objects clattering to equally cold metal tables – like the one he was laying on… no. Like the one he was_ _tied_ _to. He pulled hard, groaning at the effort and pain of the metal cuffs cutting into his wrists._  
"Stop struggling Little Hawk," he froze, "This'll be over soon." A silhouette moved into his line of sight, the light was burning his eyes, and he welcomed the darkness. The man's image cleared, but his face was still obscured by a dirty surgical mask. He panicked as a scalpel was brought towards his chest.

Clint Barton woke with a start, sitting up in his bed, on the verge of a panic attack and most definitely hyperventilating. He moved his legs out from under the sheets as he rubbed his chest, feeling the scar tissue that ran from his collarbone to his navel. He took a deep breath and let his feet touch the carpet; he braced his hands on the mattress as he focused on controlling his breathing. He had just taken a deep and steadying breath, when his cell phone lit up (painfully, and he snapped his eyes closed) and vibrated twice. He reached over and turned on the lamp, wincing again at brightness of the light. He could tell today would not be a good day for his eyes. Once his eyes had somewhat adjusted to the light, he reached for his phone and unlocked the screen, noting the time _(2:30 AM)_ before checking the notifications. One text message, from Phil Coulson.

He sighed and tapped once on the message, which he noted was addressed to both him and Natasha _(she would be a joy to work with today)_ and read the quickly typed message. He sighed, thinking mildly that at least Phil had good timing. He would be able to sleep the rest of the night anyway. Clint locked his phone and let his hands rest in his lap, what had he dreamt about? He frowned deeply, finding that he couldn't remember. Had he been frightened for some reason? Of what?

He shook his head, he knew the dream had been of his past, but that was the most frustrating thing about all of this. The one thing he couldn't remember, yet he dreamed about it, and he still could not remember it. It was like… trying to pick up a sewing needle with thick working gloves. It was difficult, if not freaking impossible. And positively infuriating.

He sighed deeply, it didn't matter now. Right now, he had a mission. Annnnd he had to find a clean uniform. He looked around his messy apartment, and sighed in a long-suffering manner. He really did need to clean up around the place.

0o0o0o0o0o0

The dust was quickly turned to mud as the rain saturated the ground and air. He was soaked from head to toe and he knew his partner was in the same state. The steady rain became a downpour as the heavens opened up and let loose. Water ran into his eyes making it hard to see, and the head of his arrow glinted in the moonlight as he took aim. He exhaled as his fingers twitched and the arrow flew, nailing a poor drug runner to the wall by his jacket. Clint sighed and watched as his partner knocked out the criminal and let him hang by Clint's arrow which soon gave out under the stress of the man's weight and landed him in the thick mud. That had been the last one. He scanned the area, the headlights of the escapees' vehicles fading in the rain soaked night. He barely listened to his comm spring to life as Natasha called in the SHIELD agents waiting to clean up the mess.

To an outsider, it would have seemed like a mission well done, but Clint knew better; Natasha knew better. The entire op had been botched from the start. Bad Intel mixed with bad weather. Hand-to-hand was near impossible in the thick and slushy mud, which was why Clint had opted to aid Natasha from a higher vantage point. He took them out or slowed them down and she would finish the job. They had captured six in total, but many more had escaped - including the cartel leader. He lowered his bow and watched as SHIELD aircraft landed to take the remaining drugs and captured dealers away. He glanced over his shoulder as he felt more than heard Natasha come up behind him. They couldn't really sneak up on each other anymore, over eight years as partners had that effect.

"You look like a drowned rat."  
He replied with equal cynicism, "Thanks."  
Natasha came to stand by his side and watched the army of SHIELD agents load the dope and prisoners up. Now that the area was completely lit, Natasha could see the man that Clint had nailed to the wall being retrieved and Clint's arrow being pulled from the unfortunate man's jacket. "That was a nice shot," she said, as the man was dragged through the mud. Neither agent looked at each other as Natasha continued, "Didn't even draw blood." Clint's eyebrow twitched upward at this. He had expected some blood to be drawn from the broadhead. "More impressive: there were no lights and no moon. I could barely see my hand in front of my face. And you nailed him from here."  
He could have sworn there was more light, but the moon was new… Clint shrugged a bit, "Maybe I'm just that good," he suggested, deflecting because he didn't have an answer for her.

Natasha studied him for a moment before he turned to head back to ground level. He called over his shoulder, "We'd better go. Don't wanna miss our ride." She followed him and the doubt lingered in her mind. No one was that good. Not even Hawkeye, who never missed.

0o0o0o0o0o0

"The Mutant Registration Act continues to draw support from many Parents Rights groups who feel threatened by unidentified mutants in their schools." Clint watched the news with mild indifference. The idea of Mutants hadn't really surprised him; he'd seen some crazy stuff and even stranger people – both while working with SHIELD and while at the Carnival… mostly while at the Carnival. He figured at least eighty percent of those people had to be Mutants.

With a sigh, he rose from his couch which resided in the sitting room of his modest apartment. Sure, with his ridicules paycheck, he could have anything, or live anywhere he wanted or ever dreamed. For him, though, a small apartment smack in the center of New York. Having a lavish home or other various wants would be a bit pointless since he would be off on the other side of the planet most the time. He trudged toward what passed as a kitchen while draining the rest of the water from his glass. He sat the glass in the sink as he passed through and looked at his watch: 12:03  
The numbers glared at him, daring him to sleep at three minutes past noon. He wasn't normally the kind of guy to take naps, but it was sounding very tempting. He was still feeling weary from his last mission, and he swore he was still soaked to the bone. _Drowned rat. Thanks, Tasha._

Clint headed for the couch, flopped down and sprawled out, one foot dangling over the edge and the other propped up on the arm. He put an arm behind his head and looked at the medium sized flat screen. TMZ reporters were now handing out the latest celebrity news like candy; currently something about Tony Stark and the last party he was at - nothing new, really. Stark went to a lot of parties. He idly wondered how these people kept up with him, and then wondered how anyone could REALLY care.

He closed his eyes and tuned out the sound from the TV.  
Yeah. A quick nap wouldn't hurt.

Bzzzt. Bzzzt. Bzzzt. Bzzzt. Bzzzt.  
He groaned at the buzzing and vibration coming from his pocket, and instantly regretted leaving his phone on. He was just about asleep, right at the middle ground between consciousness and blissful sleep. He deserved it after scrambling in the mud for two months.

But, he knew he couldn't just turn his phone off; it was his only form of communication; he had no land line, no point in paying the bill if you're never there to answer it. He pulled the buzzing device from his pocket and checked the caller ID.

_Coulson_

He sighed and put the phone to his ear, "Barton."  
_"You need to come in."_ Seriously? __  
"I just left." He had been there only an hour earlier.  
_"Fury's orders; don't keep him waiting, Barton."_ The line went dead and Clint allowed his hand to drop to the floor as he lay on the couch. So much for a relaxing afternoon, let alone a short nap.

He rose from the couch with a single thought: _If this is another mission, so help me god…._

0o0o0o0o0o0

Twenty minutes and two cabs later, Clint Barton arrived at SHIELD HQ. The hilariously calm reception area hid the regular hustle and bustle that Clint knew awaited him beyond the thick double doors at the end of the room. He nodded at the receptionist, who recognized him and alerted Fury that Agent Barton had arrived. He swiped his ID and provided an iris scan, to which the doors unlocked and allowed the agent to enter. When he'd first joined SHIELD, his senses had been immediately overwhelmed by all the action in this part of the building. Voices overlapping, people constantly moving around, and the few who were sitting still were making phone calls, checking on agents in the field, or tackling mountains of paperwork. Now, 13 years in his career, he was very used to it as he weaved his way through the hordes of Agents in the halls. Far too soon, the archer found himself outside Fury's office. He knocked twice then entered, fully aware that Fury had been told of his arrival. Clint entered and Fury met his gaze with a single eye, "Sit down."

He didn't argue as he shut the door behind him and sat in a chair in front of the Director. Clint now felt as if he'd been caught elbow deep in a cookie jar, and the vibe he was getting off Fury only reinforced this feeling. He'd always been good at reading people, it's what caused him to offer Romanoff a job instead of an arrow in her heart. Fury tossed a file and it landed with a solid slap on Fury's desk in front of Barton. "Explain this to me, Agent Barton," Nick Fury leaned back in his chair nonchalantly waiting on Barton to open the file. Which he did, albeit cautiously, unsure of what could possibly be in the file. The label informed him that it was his medical file. Could this be results of the 'random' physicals that had been required of all SHEILD agents a few weeks back? SHIELD never did anything 'random' or without reason, or 'Oh, we felt like it.'  
He fingered the file before picking up it and opening it to read.  
Pft. Read. Right.  
He didn't understand half the information or various abbreviations that obviously mean something, but he had no clue what. A few things he was familiar with: blood pressure, heart rate, the typical vital signs. All looked good to him. Blood pressure was a bit high, but it was a well-known fact among the medical personnel that Clint hated needles, which were required for the blood test that they always insisted on doing last because of his (ahem) fear of said pointy object. The reason for the phobia was unknown, but it was there; and never failed to make heart beat just a bit faster. It only became a problem when that needle was brought anywhere near his face. He'd punched a nurse several years back, and it would have been funny if Fury hadn't lived up to his name that day.

One section of the report caught his eye and he read it again. His heart began to beat a bit faster, and he swallowed down the sinking feeling in his gut. He read it again. And again, but, alas the letters didn't change or erase completely.

_**X-GENE** _ _: Positive_

Clint stared at the words before he found his voice, "I… I don't understand." He understood the meaning behind the words; that he'd tested positive for the Mutant X-Gene. But he… he wasn't…. a Mutant? He furrowed his brows in thought; all he had was his keen eye sight, but that wasn't anything special, was it? Some people's eyesight was just better than others. He brought his eyes to look at Fury, who was looking back at his Agent – concern seemed to be lacing his features, but Clint couldn't really be sure. Reading Nick Fury was often like reading a book with invisible ink. You can manage it; it just takes a bit more effort.

Clint didn't bother to hide the confusion on his face. He wasn't a Mutant. He couldn't be. Why would he be? What makes him so special? Fury sighed to himself, quietly judging his Agent by the genuine confusion on his face.

"The test was ran several times," Clint let the file sit on the desk as Fury spoke, "All came back positive."  
"What now?" Clint looked at Fury. Clint was well aware of the rules regarding Mutants. They simply were not allowed to be a part of SHIELD. The Council considered them 'unpredictable liabilities.' Fury sat back in his chair, "You mention this to no one. "  
Barton sat up a bit, "I thought," he paused, finding it strange to refer to himself as a Mutant, "Mutants weren't supposed to be a part of SHIELD."  
"They aren't, but some have slipped in. Their mutations so invisible no one thought to check." Clint raised his eyebrow at this. SHIELD checked everything, the Agents here had next to no secrets left to hide. "I've never been a believer that Mutants should be banned from SHIELD, Barton. I've never enforced the rule if I can get away with it." The Council would not be pleased to discover that. Clint breathed in. "We found six Mutants, not including you." He looked up at his one-eyed boss. Seven Mutants managed to slip into the greatest information agency in the world? Granted, one didn't know he was a Mutant, and yet he somehow still thought it was a stroke of luck that he had been the youngest person ever recruited into SHIELD?

Clint once again caught himself wondering what made him so special.

"Does Coulson know?" Present tense because how could Phil have known if Fury was just finding out.  
"Yes."  
"Natasha?"  
"Up to you to tell her, and that would be only person you'd be permitted to tell. Doctor Barnes is already aware as he handled the blood tests."  
'Awesome,' he thought. He needed to talk to Phil first. He needed answers to his ever growing list of questions. Fury, seeing no point in further keeping Barton, told him to figure out what he could do (though Nick had a good guess) and to report back before dismissing him from his office. Clint tried not to look like he was in hurry to leave, but that room was suddenly very cramped and the halls of SHIELD HQ weren't any better. He needed air. He needed the sky above his head and the world below his feet, and it wasn't long before Clint found himself perched precariously on the parapet that surrounded the highest roof of SHIELD's building. His knees drawn up to his chest, arms on his knees and chin rested on his arms.

The New York skyline greeted him and the sounds of traffic and people below melded into a symphony of music. He could finally breathe, and try to wrap his head around all… this. He still had questions, lots and lots of questions, but they could wait for him to gather his wits again.

He had no idea how long he'd been up there, and he'd barely noticed the light fading into the darkness of dusk. His head twitched ever so slightly at the sound of footsteps on the gravel covered roof behind him.

Coulson came at sat on the low wall, back facing the city so he could see Clint's face. He was silent, content to let Clint start the conversation. Which he did, sooner than expected, "Did you know?"  
Phil looked at him fully, the young man was watching him - grey, blue and green eyes staring intently at him, waiting. Phil heard the unspoken parts of the question, as Clint knew he would. 'Did you know I was a Mutant when you found me?'  
"No," he paused, and Clint watched him still, sensing that the older man wasn't done, "I suspected though." Clint sat up at this, and put his legs down to hang off the side of the building. "What?" Confusion came off him in waves, and Phil held his gaze. "When I found you, you were blind and beaten. Your eyes so badly damaged that no one could have healed. At yet you did." Barton's gaze shifted to the city again as he listened. "Not very quickly, but you did heal. The doctor's called it a miracle, but I knew there was something about you." So what did that mean?

Clint looked at Phil, "So, what do you think?" What can I do? What makes me so special?  
His Handler smiled at him, reassuring him, "I think you may have a Healing Factor. I also think your eyesight can be classified as 'meta-human.'"  
"Some people's eyesight is just better than others."  
"How far out can you see?" Clint looked at him, questioning. "Go on. Look. Find the smallest thing you can see from here." Clint sighed softly but looked out to the city. He looked down first. The people looked like ants and the cars looked my beetles, but he had a feeling that wasn't small enough. He saw kid selling newspapers on a street corner. He focused on the paper, and read aloud part of the article. Something about the Mutant Registration Act, _(that seemed to taking up all the news recently; it made Clint nervous)_ and Coulson recognized the excerpt. He knew Clint didn't get the paper, nor did he care about the news on a whole, but he found it interesting that Clint had picked that line out of the entire front page.  
Wait. "Where did you read that?"  
Clint swallowed, "Kid selling papers on the corner." He point vaguely in the direction of the kid, and Coulson looked. He knew were the kid was, saw him every day. "Clint. That's over a mile away." Not to mention several stories up. He would have needed binoculars to actually see the kid instead of having a vague idea of where he was, let alone actually _read_ it. A feat which even binoculars wouldn't have helped him achieve.

Coulson looked at Clint, and Clint looked back. He knew his eyes would something else, but he had no idea they were that good.

"So… a mutation then."  
Phil only took a breath and nodded slightly. He knew, as well as Clint, that no one's eyesight was _that_ good.

 _"So you found out today, your life's not the same_  
_Not quite as perfect as it was yesterday but_  
_When you were just getting in the groove_  
_Now you're faced with something new"_  
-No Giving Up; Crossfade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These are the ages for the three main characters in this story.  
> Clint, aged: 31  
> Natasha, aged: 25  
> Phil, aged: 46


	3. TWO

He was not happy by any stretch of the word. He was, in fact, very unhappy. Outwardly, Clint Barton looked annoyed, perhaps even a bit bored. But inside, he was falling apart at the seams. Something that his Handler had noticed strait off, "You'll be fine."  
Logically, Clint knew this to be true. Not one of the Medical personnel would maliciously hurt him, or force him into something he couldn't do. No, that job was currently held by Phillip Coulson. There was always one thing that the more experienced medics at SHIELD learned fast: Do not, under any circumstances, for any reason bring any object (including one's hand) near Agent Barton's eyes. Unless you _want_ a broken nose, then by all means. For those in the know (meaning those who were actually responsible for Barton's life, meaning Doctor Barnes) they knew why Agent Barton sometimes (usually when injured already) had a violent reaction. He had first diagnosed with Posttraumatic Stress Disorder when he was 15. Any object near his eyes was a trigger for mild panic, and if the object is not removed promptly, flashbacks and full blown panic will ensue.

He can hold it off, but only for so long. He's better than he was as a teenager. There would be no build from calm, to nervous, to panic; just strait to panic. Now he could at least have the presence of mind to warn someone to back off before he hit them.

He felt a hand on his knee, and looked at Coulson staring at him, holding his knee down from bouncing. Was he bouncing it? He didn't notice. Crap. Not even in the room and he was already fidgety. He took a deep breath and tried to calm down; he rolled his neck trying to relieve his tense muscles. No such luck. They hadn't been waiting very long. Maybe 5 minutes. But it seemed like hours.  
"He's just examining your eyes, nothing invasive. No needles, no poking." He knew that, but when irrational fear came into the picture, logic jumps off the top of the Empire State. He breathed deeply again.

He'd never, not once, had his eyes examined. He'd never needed to – strange as is sounded. Perhaps when Coulson had first brought him in at 13 – not when he'd been recruited into SHIELD, he'd been 19 then. At 13, he was pretty sure he'd panicked then, but was too drugged up and too beat up to really have a say. But maybe that was just not being sure what was going on, surrounded by strangers and not being able to actually _see_.

He first remembered openly lashing out in school, when he was 15. A classmate, a bully, had brought a sharpened end of a pencil near his eyes, and Clint _flipped_ out. He was suspended for two months, and the other kid made off with a broken nose, two broken fingers and few cracked ribs for his trouble.

"Prodding though," he swallowed, hating how young he sounded. The anxiety was making its way into his voice. Phil put a hand on his shoulder, not able to deny the younger man's comment.  
"You'll be fine, Clint."

There were a few things that only those privileged to know Clint Barton well enough knew what he liked… besides the obvious Archery. He liked heights; loved them, the higher the better. He was certain that as soon as he could walk, he'd been climbing onto things. Not that he would ever know; memory loss and all. Later that became something else, a sense of security and safety. Like nothing could touch him if he was just a little bit higher; it was also useful when spying on people. He always found it interesting that no one _ever_ looked up, like no one could _possibly_ be sitting the rafters above you, waiting to pounce on your neck.  
He like small spaces, specifically air ducts. He really had no idea why, but air ducts could often be an informative source of entertainment. And he did have the perfect stature to crawl around in them.

And then, those who knew him exceptionally well, knew these things:  
He hated being tied down or restrained in any way. He would not struggle too much unless another trigger was tossed in his face. Literally. The triggers were very specific, and resulted in panic attacks and flashbacks that he could never remember afterwards. And that was the most frustrating part. Half of him wanted to know what was missing, the other half didn't; too scared to face what might be a horrible reality. Sometimes he would wake in a cold sweat after a nightmare memory, working its way into nothingness, and Clint could never recall what it was about. No matter how hard he tried, he could never remember.

He felt his heart begin to race and he swallowed down the rush of emotions, and the sudden shot of adrenaline his system had been granted. Phil squeezed his shoulder to both draw his attention and reassure him. Clint swallowed hard. The doctor was ready for him. Only been six minutes had passed, Clint could have sworn it had been twelve years. Both men stood and followed Barnes to a small room with a single chair in the center, his breathing quickened, and he felt Phil guide him into the chair. He put his head back and counted back from 20 in his head. He needed to calm down; he needed to get a grip on this. He heard Phil pull a wheeled chair from the corner of the room, and sit closest to Clint. A reassuring hand on his forearm, and Clint was reminded of when he'd first woken up in SHIELD's Medical wing, with Phil gently pushing him back down onto the bed.

He forced himself to relax into the chair. He closed his eyes as he reached the half way mark in his mental countdown and opened them again when he reached one.

He was calm.  
For now.

"How are you doing, Agent Barton?" Barnes asked. As a SHIELD doctor, they knew everything about the human body and could take on the role of whatever they needed to in order to get the job done. In this case, an ophthalmologist. Clint shifted in his seat slightly and settled for honesty, "Not too hot." He was nervous train wreck, thank you for asking.

Barnes took a chair (also with wheels) and rolled it over in front of Clint and sat down, "We'll get this done as quickly as we can." He watched Clint for a moment, "If it becomes too much, just say stop and we'll give you a break." Clint nodded stiffly, Barnes pointed at him, "Don't tough it out Clint. I don't fancy a broken nose today." The older man smiled wryly, and Clint found that the joke lifted his mood a tiny bit; if only for a moment. He let the corner of his mouth twitch in a faint smirk.

Harry Barnes was your typical doctor, but he had the personality of grandfather and every one of his patients was his grandchild. Clint found that he liked the older man, and it was through years of gaining trust in the man (aka, saving Clint's life several times) that he had even allowed himself to taken this far. To be in the chair with Barnes reaching for his head, taking the time to make sure every action was non-threatening, and making sure Clint was okay. For this, he was grateful. But at the same time he felt so _weak_. He was a grown man who flipped out whenever someone messed with his eyes in anyway. He should be over this by now. He felt anger at himself rise in his chest, and mixed with his current level of anxiety, made him feel physically ill. Phil squeezed his forearm and Clint swallowed both emotions down. Phil would, and has, told him that it was foolish to think an issue as deeply rooted as Clint's would just fix itself.  
"I'm just checking the tissue around your eyes." Clint nodded absently and his chin was tilted up slightly and the doctor gently pulled his lower left eyelid down. Clint's jaw clenched and he forced himself to relax and forced his breathing to even out. He moved his fingers closer to Clint's nose to expose the tissues in the corner of his eye. He removed his hand, "Blink." He did and Clint saw Barnes frown slightly, not a frown of concern, but of interest. The archer said nothing, and his head was tilted up and right a bit, granting Harry a better view. He quickly checked the other eye and then rolled over two feet to his desk to jot something down on a clipboard. Clint tried to discreetly read it, but the surface was out of his line of sight.  
 _Dangit._ "What is it?"  
Barnes rolled over to kill half the lights, "Nothing to be concerned about. We'll go over everything after wards." He rolled his chair back to Clint, and retrieved a tool from a nearby tray. Clint furrowed his eyebrows, then relaxed them as he glanced at the tool, showing blatant unconcern. It was all an act, of course. He was still tense as a bowstring and he could swear he was sweating. He knew his palms had to be slick with it. His heart was beating wildly, and he tried to push down the feeling of _weakness_ again. His vision started to go black as his emotions started to get away from him.

_The fear and pain were insurmountable to the point that Clint's mind was numb to everything but what was setting his nerves ablaze. As the source of the pain finally retreated, he breathed. His breath hitched and tears of blood cascaded from unseeing eyes and down along his cheeks, and further down close to his ears. He was so tired, and scared and in so much pain. He heard himself whimper, but he couldn't recall ordering his throat to conjure the sound._

_Voices were muffled all around him, like an undersea chorus of a thousand voices. But… he'd stopped caring about that they were saying. He didn't understand, and that was worst part._  
He didn't understand.  
Why were they doing this?

_Anger flared up hot and sudden and mixed with the fear, and a familiar voice chose that moment to join in on the chorus. It called his name. Soothing, yet demanding obedience._

_The images around him shattered like glass and Clint reeled, flailing and grabbing at anything within his reach, fully intent on doing as much damage as possible. Strong hands gripped his wrists and he kicked out blindly, still oblivious to anything around him and he only knew that he was scared – well and truly frightened, but he couldn't remember_ _**why** _ _._

"BARTON!"

He froze and blinked at the command. His breaths came quick and unsteady, on the verge of hyperventilation. Phil's face appeared in his vision as the blackness flowed away. "Slow your breathing," Doctor Barnes said from behind him and he noticed the doctor's hands on his shoulders, "Slow… down…" Clint made an effort to do so, and to force his mind to calm down. Five minutes passed before Clint could breathe normally. Flash backs like this were nothing new to Clint, and it was the same each time: he'd relive a horrible moment in his past, and then forget it as soon as reality started bleeding through. He took a deep breath to steady himself and then he looked around and found Phil's face, faint worry etched into the lines on his brow, a silent question on his lips and Clint nodded, still reeling from the force of this episode.

Harry's hands had long left Clint's shoulders and he now sat in a rolling chair across from Phil and watching Clint with nearly the same expression on his face. "What did you see?" Clint breathed deep, trying to pull the memory from the depths of his damaged mind… with no luck. He looked at them and shook his head, "Nothing… I…" he sighed and put his hands in his head and rubbed his face before looking around him more fully, trying to jog his memory of events before he blacked out.

Barnes looked at him, "You alright?" Clint nodded stiffly, feeling slightly calmer; the doctor watched a moment longer as his patient got a hold on himself. "We're almost done." He assured Clint as he flipped the light of the ophthalmoscope and scooted closer to Clint, who looked down at the instrument. "Look straight ahead, don't look into the light. This is just so I can see the back of your eye, through your pupil." Clint let out a breath he wasn't aware he'd been holding and he heard Phil next to him, "You're doing great, Clint." He felt Phil's hand on his forearm in case he lost it again.

He allowed Barnes to bring the tool close to his right eye, then his left. Another frown and he rolled over to jot something else down, and then back to Clint. With the light from the scope still on, he waved it below Clint's eyes – which he noticed were more slightly dilated than normal. This wasn't worry-some, he had a high level of awareness, it was normal. But the room was also much darker. He frowned again after waving the light twice. He switched the scope off and put it back, turned the light back on and wrote something else down on his clipboard; a clipboard that Clint really wanted to get his hands or eyes on.

"Any sensitivity to light?" Barnes turned in his chair to face his patient.  
"Yes." "Sometimes." Phil and Clint both answered. Harry looked at them both over the rims of his reading glasses, "Which is it?" Coulson looked at Clint and he breathed and shifted in his seat, "Yes, but not all the time. Some days are worse than others, and some days it's just fine."  
"How much worse?"  
"Headaches. If I wear my sunglasses, which I do anyway, it's fine."  
"How was it when I put the light in your eyes?"  
"It hurt, but not bad. A dull ache." He nodded, rolled back over to Clint and pulled a pen out of the breast pocket of his white lab coat. "Follow the tip, but don't move your head." Clint blinked and followed the pen. Up, down, left side, right side. "Look straight ahead, don't move you head or eyes. Tell me when you can't see the pen anymore." The pen passed his ear on both sides when he couldn't see it anymore. Harry clicked the pen and went back to his super-secret clipboard. Clint tried to get a look at it again, but he still could see the surface of it. He rolled back in front of Clint, "You can relax. We're done for now." He tossed him a reassuring smile and the archer breathed. Phil squeezed his arm again and smiled approvingly. He'd done well.

"Wait," Clint said, "'For now?'"  
Harry nodded slowly, "Yes, I want to run more tests." More…? Clint didn't even get through this one. "Any other tests would be either a CT scan so was can actually see the structure of your eyes, or just you telling us what you see." Good to know. He exhaled softly, not realizing he'd been holding his breath.

"Let me know if you notice anything else," Harry said as he stood, "Otherwise, we're done here."  
Clint and Phil both stood, "I will."  
Harry held out his hand for Clint to shake, which Clint took and shook firmly, "You did well, Clint." He put his other hand on his shoulder, "You're getting better." Barnes had treated Clint when Phil had just brought Clint in, injured and frightened. He'd witnessed the full magnitude of Clint's flashbacks, the way he reacted so violently when a trigger was squeezed enough to make him snap. Though, back then, it didn't take much to set him off. Now days, his flashbacks were not as violent and it was easier to bring him out of it.

Clint nodded, "Thanks."  
With that, Clint and Phil left, walking down the corridors and halls of SHIELD HQ, both were walking in comfortable silence, but both could tell the other had something to say. Phil would talk first, that's just how it was. Unless his handler had nothing to say, then he would just wait till Clint talked. "When are you going to tell Natasha?"  
Clint shrugged, "I don't know. Don't know how…."  
"You should, you're partners. You know all that she's capable of, she has the right to know the same." Phil was right, he was always right. "I have no idea what to say, Phil."  
"The truth is a good place to start," Clint stopped short, and Phil continued on, "Go find her."

Right.

_TBC_

 


	4. THREE

The most logical places for the Black Widow to be found where the range, the gym, or his perch on the roof, he opted to check the range first, and when that proved to be empty he checked the gym; still no Nat. He found that odd, since she was more often in those two places than the roof. He stopped to think of any other place she could be before going up to the roof. The mess was always empty this time of day, though it was only a few hours till lunch. Fury said they were both on leave for the next few days, so no missions and no briefings. Both agents had already turned their reports in from the last mission. Thinking of no place else to check, he started toward the roof. He took an elevator up to the top level, then the stair case to the roof access door. Upon opening it, he winced from the sunlight and slipped his sunglasses on.

He scanned the roof quickly and efficiently, spotting a shape on his perch. He walked up, not bothering to mask his steps or sneak around. She didn't acknowledge him at all as he came up to her, "Hey, Nat." he sat down. He let his legs hang over the edge and looked down at the city below. "Whacha doin' up here?"  
She gave a half smile, "What's the matter, Barton? Don't like other people on your perch?"  
"Well no… 'cept you or Phil. But Phil has almost no reason to be up here by himself, and you usually don't either sooo…." he shrugged.  
"I hadn't seen you since we got back, having leave and all, though," She looked at him, "I thought it was only yesterday. Then Fury tells me I have a few days." He kept his gaze on the city. "Do you know what's going on?" He was quiet, and he fidgeted with his hands on his lap. He almost never did that, unless he was upset or nervous about something – and those were few and far between. "What's going on, Clint?" He took a deep breath, "Fury called me in yesterday, about the physicals a while back." She watched him, "I'm fine, but they found something in my blood work."  
"What?"  
"Um.. heh," He chuckled nervously, "the ah… the X-gene." He kept is gaze on the city, not willing to look at his partner. He didn't realize it, but he'd been dreading telling her, or anyone for that matter. Like they would look at him differently for being… well… different.  
"The X-gene. As in the Mutant X-gene?" Was there another X-gene?  
Clint nodded, "Ya." He took a chance in looking at her, he didn't know what he was expected to see in her face – or rather her eyes, because only two people could really read Natasha Romanoff and know what she was thinking. He saw, not contempt or anger or fear, but confusion that mirrored his own on the situation. "You're a Mutant?"  
"It looks that way."  
"But you've never- I've never seen you have, or use – you know, powers."

Clint took another breath, "You were right. A few days ago, when I nailed that guy to the wall. No one could have made that shot. Not even me, with my aim. But I could see him. Clear as day, like it wasn't even night out. …it never occurred to me that other people didn't see that good at night." He forced his hands to relax and exhale. Why was he so nervous about this?  
She looked away from him, down the city, "I don't know what to say, Clint."  
"That's good, cause honestly, neither do I," she looked at him, "But we're partners, you deserve to know. Besides… if I'd known and not told you, you would have kicked my ass." He smiled wryly and she rolled her eyes, not disagreeing with him. They settled into a comfortable silence, Clint, for his part, glad she didn't walk away from him entirely.  
"So what can you do?"  
"Besides what you already know?"  
"Yes, besides your ability to see in near perfect darkness."  
"You know that kid that's always selling papers on the corner?" He pointed in the direction and she nodded. "I read part of it from here. And… I don't think that's as far as I can see."  
"Impressive, Barton," Clint couldn't tell if she really meant it or not. He didn't really care. It felt good to tell someone, someone he trusted. "Anything else?"  
He breathed, thinking. "Coulson said I might have a… a healing factor, he called it."  
"What makes him think that? You heal as fast as I do." She said matter of factly and Clint agreed.  
"Coulson didn't become my handler on a whim; I've known him since I was thirteen." He saw he her sit up a little, hearing something new about her partner. "When he found me I was injured. Badly. Besides the broken bones and being carved like a turkey, my eyes were torn up. It took 3 months for my eyes to heal enough for me to see – longer for me to see clearly. They called it a miracle, Phil never thought so. Or so he tells me." They normally didn't share the past – it was often too painful, but when they did, they listened, and more often than not understood and moved on, usually not mentioning it again. The past makes you who you are, but that doesn't make it less painful.

"He also seems to think, that whatever happened, is the source of my PTSD." She nodded, she had known about his Posttraumatic Stress, thought she'd never witnessed the panic attacks or flashbacks, except after nightmares. Clint had only told her that he couldn't remember anything, that he knew it was there, but he could never grab it. He saw her nod, and looked over at her for a moment.  
"You know," she started after he'd looked away, "We could always test how fast you heal."  
He looked at her again, "How?" He eyes followed her hand as she went to her belt and pulled out a small throwing knife. Of course she had knives on her she always had knives on her. "Give me your hand." He hesitated for only a moment, before putting his right hand in hers, palm up. She rested the blade on the flesh opposite his thumb and looked at him, asking silent permission. He nodded once and she quickly drew the knife backwards, slicing the flesh as it went. Only his thumb twitched. The cut wasn't deep, and didn't bleed too much. Nat wiped the knife off and put it away, "We'll see how long it takes that to heal." He looked down at his palm; he thought that it should be bleeding more. He just decided to ignore the wound for now.

The two settled into calm conversation and occasional friendly banter for the next twenty minutes, finally falling silent for another five before they heard the sound of the roof access door opening and closing. Only Coulson had ever come up here for them, so neither agent needed to turn around to see who it was. Clint cocked his head slightly at the sound of plastic bags and he turned to look over his shoulder at the suit clad agent making way over to them. In his hand, he held three bags, each filled with take-out boxes from, what was quite possibly, the best Chinese joint in all of New York. Clint's mouth started watering, and all he could think about was how impossibly good some orange chicken, fried rice with chow mien and teriyaki chicken would be. He turned his body to face Phil as he strolled up and handed each agent their lunch before taking the last bag for himself and sitting on the wall. Thanks were not needed; they had an understanding between them all. No one owed any one anything, except Natasha, who could not be convinced that she didn't owe Clint anything. And Clint, who silently owed Phil his life, but besides that, none of them would owe the other a single thing. Clint opened his box, found all his favorites and instantly dug in. He saw Nat smile a bit before, calmly, digging into her own food.

They ate silently till most, or in Clint's case, all the food was gone, the trash discarded in the waste bin that was near the roof access door, which had been brought up there because the three of them seemed to like their spot on the roof. Clint returned his gaze to the city below, he was still trying to absorb everything he'd learned over the past two days. First off, he was a Mutant. He was still trying to wrap his head around that, never mind the stuff with his eyes – all the things that made them different. He'd heard someplace that mutations manifest around puberty. He tried to think back, but so much of those memories were lost or too hazy to make out clearly.

His face must have shown how deep in thought he was when Nat bumped him with her shoulder, "You alright?"  
"Huh? …Yeah. Just thinking."  
Phil chewed on his fortune cookie thoughtfully then swallowed, "About?" Clint didn't answer right away, still trying to remember some snippet of his past. He'd always been able to see distance, but he'd had trouble reading or seeing anything up close. He looked down at his hands, which were as sharp as the people walking below. What was it called when you could see distance, but not close up?

Farsighted...ness? He knew there was probably a clinical term that he didn't know, nor did he really care to. "I used to be farsighted."  
"How bad," Phil asked.  
"Reading was impossible."  
"When did it improve?"  
Clint thought for a moment, when did his eyesight improve? He closed his eyes in thought, a stray memory coming to the forefront of his mind.

" _Buck!"_

 _A much younger Clint Barton slid on the dirt floor of the big top as he rounded a corner, right into the Swordsman. He tumbled to the ground with a grunt, and the older man deftly avoided being bulldozed by the pre-teen. "What's gotten into you, Boy?!"_  
Clint quickly picked himself up and dusted himself off, "Sorry, but I need to find Buck."  
"Not that badly, you don't." The boy shrunk back a tiny bit at the older man's gaze, then it softened only a little bit, "You ready for the show tonight?"  
Clint smiled wide, he liked doing acts with the Swordsman, he didn't particularly like the man himself, but the acts were always fun, "Yes, Sir!"  
The older man walked away, yelling over his shoulder, "Good. And next time, don't run!"

_Clint waited until the Swordsman was out of eyesight and he jogged toward where Buck spent most of his time honing his skills for the show. Mindful to keep out of the firing range, Clint stopped at the edge of the room, watching his old mentor pull the arrow back with practiced ease and release. The arrow flew straight and true hitting the bull's-eye with a sharp TWACK._

" _You watchin' kid?" Clint nodded and bounded over to Buck as he pulled another arrow from the quiver, Buck looked at him at the corner of his eye, "You learnin'?" Clint met his eyes and nodded with a smile. He loved watching Buck practice, he never got the chance during the show, and Buck always taught him new tricks during practice._

 _The old man let the arrow fly, splitting the arrow that already rested on the target. Clint awed and promised that one day, he'd be just as good. Buck turned to face the young boy, "Wha'ch you got there?"_  
"Huh?" Oh. He looked down at the book he'd managed to keep a hold of during his run-in with the Swordsman. "It's a book," he lifted it to show the old man.  
"I know that, why have you got it? You know you can't read, Clint. Eyes ain't good 'nuff." Buck put a hand on his shoulder in a fatherly manner.  
"But I can see the letters now, Buck." The old man raised an eyebrow, "I can't read it, but they aren't fuzzy anymore."

" _Well now…."_

The memory ended, and Clint sighed, wishing it would keep playing like a movie. What happened next? He shook his head; he should be very used to cliffhangers by now. "I don't remember… maybe twelve." He looked down at his hand and rubbed the dried blood away, "Huh."  
Natasha reached for his hand, "Wow." Phil looked over, "What?"

"We, ah, were testing Clint's healing," Natasha said, "Cut his palm about ten minutes ago." She examined his hand, "Fully healed. Barely a scar." Clint looked up at Phil, who was frowning. "What is it?"  
"Nothing," Phil said, "Just something I need to ask Harry later on."  
Clint watched Phil, a question burning in his eyes, and Phil just stared back and Clint knew he wasn't getting any answers.

At least, not until tomorrow.

0o0o0o0o0o0

After a short barrage of CT scans which thankfully, Clint has absolutely no issues with, Clint and Phil found themselves in Harry Barnes office, waiting for the doctor in question to return from going over the results. While Phil occupied his time reading files and keeping an eye on Clint; Clint drummed his fingers on the wood arm of the chair he was lounging in.

The archer sat up as the door opened, and watched intently as Harry walked around and sat himself in his over-plush chair. He took his time arranging the files, and looking them over one last time. "First off, you have the healthiest set of eyes I've ever seen. Now, I was told to find the differences in anatomy, and I found several."

_Meaning…?_

"First thing I noticed is that you have a fully functional 'Nictitating Membrane', which is a secondary, clear, protective eyelid. This is a trait usually found in birds and some reptiles." Clint frowned slightly. He'd never noticed that before, and you'd think he would. "Next is that you have what is called a 'Pectin'. Again, birds and few reptiles have this. It lifts blood vessels, which can obscure the image, away from your retina which leads to sharper eyesight." So he had two things a human did not have. Awesome.

"How's your night vision, Agent Barton?"  
Huh? "Fine."  
"I should say so. You know when you see light reflected in a dog or cat's eyes, and it glows? Yours do the same thing." He paused, "How well can you see in the dark?"  
Clint thought about it, something he'd never really given much thought to at all. But he realized, "Just as good as during the day. Maybe better. But…" Barnes and Phil waited, and Clint found himself thinking that THIS is something he should have noticed straight off, "I can't see color in the dark."  
"Only in the dark?" Barton nodded. "You can see color otherwise."  
Another nod, "Coulson's wearing a grey-blue tie, and yours is pink." Clint suppressed a grin at the older man's expense.  
"Ah, Agent Barton. Haven't you heard? Only real men wear pink," Said Barnes, without missing a beat.  
Clint smiled open at this, slipping flawlessly into his usual attitude, "Only if they are attempting to compensate for something."

He grinned to himself when Harry made a point to ignore Clint's comment, "Moving on." He glanced down at the files, "Your sensitivity to light could be due to a number of things. One is that, unlike dogs or cats, your eyes aren't reflecting the light properly – at least not all the time. And the cause of that is a bit more difficult to determine; could be anything from past injury to just not being able to control it."

Clint nodded, trying to absorb this information. "And lastly, you don't have full range of motion with your eyes." Clint frowned at this news. He'd always thought he had good range of vision. "But your peripheral vision makes up for it. You have better range of vision than someone with will full range of motion. The reason for this is the shape of your eyes, they aren't round like normal. They are more narrow, giving you better visual acuity, but at the cost of your range of motion. Your eyes are locked in your sockets." Clint nodded, still trying to absorb all this information.

"You okay?" Harry asked.  
"Yeah," Clint nodded, "Just… a lot to take in."

"I have a few questions," Phil said, "His sensitivity to light, you said it could be due to past injury."  
The doctor nodded, "With his background, I wouldn't be surprised."  
"But if he has a healing factor…." Phil looked at Clint, "Show him your hand."  
Clint sighed and leaned forward, holding out the hand that Natahsa had cut, palm up, "Nat cut my hand last night." Harry found the new scar and examined the flesh for a moment before looking up at Clint.  
"How long did it take to heal?"  
He shrugged, "Less than 10 minutes. I wasn't paying enough attention."

Barnes let Clint have his hand, and leaned back in his chair, "It would explain how your eyes healed, and all the other various injuries you've sustained over the years. Though, as far as I know, most Mutants with a healing factor don't scar."  
"I was thinking about that, too."  
Clint looked at Phil, "You were?" Phil ignored Clint, "You found trace chemicals in his bloodstream after he was brought in."  
"Yes, and I'd say that's clear evidence of chemical enhancements."

Clint swallowed; he knew and had long ago accepted that he had been experimented on… The alterations to his heart and lungs gave him more endurance and stamina than most humans on a good day. The alteration to his muscular structure was never completed – thus it gave him 40 percent more strength in his upper body, and 20 percent more in his lower body; still higher than the human norms. No one was sure why the changes hadn't been completed, but it was sort of a good thing he chose archery to excel in.

"What if," Clint looked at Phil as he spoke, "it's inhibiting his healing? The enhancements were never completed, we know that."  
"It's possible. Without more tests, it's too hard to say." He looked at Clint, who had shrunk down in his seat, "No more tests for your eyes. I think we are done with them for now." Clint straitened in his chair, suddenly self-conscious. "Tomorrow, I'd like to test your healing factor and run a full body scan, see what else we can find." Clint nodded, suddenly feeling very weary and drained. "Till then, we're done." All three stood, said their farewells, and Phil and Clint exited the office. The older Agent turned to Clint, "You okay?"  
God, he wished people would quit asking him that, "Fine," he snapped, he sighed, then repeated himself more calmly. "Fine, just tired," And a headache, he rubbed his face. "I'm gonna go to my quarters and chill out." And by chill out, he meant sleep like the dead. Phil nodded and Clint made his way back to his quarters.

He glanced down at his watch, noting that it was still early – but he was so tired. After a very long three days and his nice episode in Medical yesterday, he deserved a bit of shut-eye, right? Not even bothering to turn on the lights after he'd entered his room, nor change his clothes or even remove his boots; he flopped on the bunk face down and wondered briefly why he found it so much easier to sleep during the day. Before he could examine this question, his mind shut the world out and sleep enveloped him.

_TBC_


	5. FOUR

Two days later.

Sharp knocking on his door caused Clint to jerk awake, and reach for the gun under his pillow. The door opened and revealed a fully dressed Phil Coulson. Clint glared at the older man for waking him, "What?" Phil didn't react to his tone, speaking instead, "We have an op. Helipad 3 in 20." Then he left as if he was never there to begin with. The archer looked at his watch, and his irritation rose, not at the ungodly hour at which he had been awakened, but that he'd only gotten 2 hours of sleep. Soon, though, Clint's irritation evaporated as Phil's words caught up to him, and he put himself in motion, quickly finding everything he needed.

10 minutes later he was packed, 5 minutes later he was showered, dressed and out of his quarters, and 4 minutes later he was on the helipad - where Phil was already waiting, and the pilot was finishing pre-flight checks. Natasha was on Clint's heels. A minute later they were in the air and Clint needed to know what was going on. "Must be quite an emergency to not get a briefing on the ground."  
"It is." Phil said, "We received word that James Wrot is in the states. New Jersey to be exact."  
"International smuggler James Wrot?" Nat asked and Clint jumped in, "The one SHIELD hasn't been able to get a hold of in eight months?"

"That's the one."  
Natasha looked at Coulson,"What's he smuggling?"  
"Nuclear codes."  
"Sounds fun. What do we do?"

"Grab and bag. Wrot has a buyer, and we know when and where the are going to be. Break up the party, destroy the codes and grab Wrot."

"Does it have to be in that order?" Phil sighed, "No, Clint." Clint smiled, and Phil was sure he already had a plan... One that probably included the new explosive arrows that R&D had given him yesterday. Clint had been working with the egg-heads for months to get them just right, and Clint, so far, seemed pleased with what they had delivered.

Natasha looked at Phil, "What happens if we can't grab Wrot?"

"Eliminate him."

"Extraction?"

"You have 24 hours to check in with mission complete once you're on the ground. Further details will come after that. Not that you two are worried about that." Both nodded and went about doing last minute checks. They were going to be dropped off at a private airstrip, then driven to the city center. Phil handed Clint a manila folder and it was tucked into his bag without a look. He would open it once they had set up at the safe house.

The clock was ticking, and Clint knew they could do this and be home with time to spare. He rested his head against the headrest of the back seat. "You okay?" Natasha asked in her native tongue. Clint nodded and answered in the same language, "Yeah, just a headache." Nat let it go, but Clint didn't. He'd never gotten headaches before, and this often? He forced himself to relax. It was silly, there was nothing wrong with him. He had a healing factor, if something was wrong, it would just heal. He was fine.

Clint slid out of the car and shouldered his gear before heading toward the safe house: a nondescript shack in the middle of one of the more shady parts of town. People didn't look twice here. 'Your business is your own.' Which was good for them, less attention. Once inside and set up, Clint removed the contents from the manila folder. All of it was from Intel, photos of all parties involved, and the location of the buy. It wasn't specified whose nuclear codes Wrot was selling, but nuclear codes being in anyone's hands but the military was usually a bad thing. Actually, them being in anyone's hands at all seemed to be a bad thing. Clint wasn't against well placed and precise explosions, but mass destruction was another thing entirely.

Clint passed the photos to Natasha and he started studying the location. The pictures they had were detailed, but Clint wanted to see it for himself. He glanced at his watch, two hours had passed since they'd been dropped, it was now 0800 hours. The codes were being paid for at 1200 hours. He had less than four hours to scout the location. Easy.

He stood and grabbed his leather jacket and slipped it on. "I'm gonna scout the area out. Be back in a couple hours." She nodded and he walked out the door and into the street. He slipped on his sunglasses and scanned the street in one go, then walked down the sidewalk. The meet was taking place in an abandoned warehouse a few blocks away.

His plan for this op was very simple. Find a place to camp out (Nat could find her own hiding spot), wait for everyone to arrive, shoot whatever container the codes were in with one of his shiny and new explosive tipped arrows, help Nat grab Wrot (maybe an arrow to the knee if he proves to be annoying), kill anyone else who decided not to run when the explosions happened, and signal for extraction. Easy.

In theory.

Clint, better than most, knew that ops could go pear shaped fast, and you had to be prepared. Budapest was an excellent example, but he didn't really want to think about that particular mission. Ever since Budapest, Clint had taken it upon himself to examine each op with 5 times the diligence that he normally would. Every exit, every escape route out of the city, every possible scenario that could possibly come up. He knew that one person couldn't possibly account for every single variable, but he could try.

The Hawk turned down an alley a block from the warehouse, and proceeded to execute a wall run using his momentum to push himself upward enough to grab the sill of a window. The brick wall was sturdy enough to support his weight, and he kept moving upwards, using anything he could as hand and footholds. In less than a minute, he was on the roof of the four story building, and running toward to roof of the next building. He jumped and landed on the adjacent roof with an impact absorbing roll and kept running. The next building was taller, but the was no problem. Another leap, and he simply grabbed a hold of a window sill and climbed up to the top.

He called to mind the map of the area and realized that he was close. He walked to edge and saw the warehouse a building away. It look completely deserted and half ready to collapse. Clint wondered if it had already been condemned or not. He made some mental notes and started to move around the perimeter, taking account of doors and windows and the general state of the structure - which wasn't promising at all.

By the time he was done examining the outside, only two hours had passed. Which gave him enough time to try and get a look inside. From a distance, he could see the padlocks and boarded windows. It's possible the door were also boarded on the inside as well, but without being inside…

Clint squinted as he scanned the building closely from his spot a couple hundred yards away. It never got old, what he could do. He could see the rusted nails still faithfully attempting to hold the old wood siding on, the splinters of old, rotting wood, a beetle crawling on the wall, and.. what was that? A security camera. Tightly nestled under the eave above the main entrance. He tried to recall if he had seen them on other parts of the building, and he had.

He reverted to his normal vision and winced. There was that headache again. He rubbed his face, with all the cameras, they had it pretty well covered. There were no blind spots except the roof. Which suited Hawkeye just fine, and he knew the Widow wouldn't mind either. One last close look and he saw a pair of skylights. Those would have to do.

With that, he returned to the safehouse. They had less than two hours to prepare a solid plan, with backup plans, get to the location and take care of business.

Easy.

0o0o0o0o0o0

"Hey, Nat?" Silence. "Next time I think an op is going to be easy… please shoot me."  
"Willingly."

Clint groaned partly because of the ropes digging into the flesh of the wrists, but primarily because of his aching head. Natasha looked around at her partner, "You get hit?"  
"Only by fists…. huge fists. I think he was wear metal gauntlets."  
"Who wears metal gauntlets?"  
"The guy that it me."  
"Would you stop whining?"  
"...No."  
"Then stop moving so I can get us out of here."  
Clint hung his head and decided that, that was a mistake. The sudden movement caused more pain, so instead of of a dull throb, he had a sharp stabbing pain. And he knew exactly how that felt. He sucked in a quiet breath… that Natasha heard.  
"What?" She asked in Russian.  
"My head. It's nothing."  
"Lair."  
"What?" He squinted in the dim lighting and cocked his head to side in confusion.  
"It's not nothing. You reacted to the pain." He turned his head to look at her. "You never react to pain." She studied him, "How long?"

He sighed, "A few days. Off and on." She didn't mention that he should have gone to get checked out before they left. She hated medical as much as he did, and recently, they've been wanting to do a lot of poking around with him. Wanting to test the limits of his abilities, something that Clint could live without experiencing. He'd already been experimented once in his life, and he didn't believe that 'tests' didn't have the same meaning as 'experiments' anymore. They meant the same thing to him now.

He felt the ropes go slack as Nat worked her way out of their binds, and Clint pulled his hands free and rubbed his wrists till redness faded and they weren't sore anymore. He reached down and untied the ropes around his ankles about the time that Nat was up and looking for a way out.

Barton pushed himself up off the ground and swayed a little and closed his eyes as his head spun for half a second. Once the world righted he opened his eyes and found Natasha watching him as she stood by the only door. He could see the worry on her face (though a normal person would just see a blank look) and he nodded and she continued her examination of the door.

"It's locked." She stated, and he dryly replied, "No really?" She gave him a look that said she wasn't quite in the mood for his sarcasm. "We'll need to find another way out. Any ideas bird-brain?" She, of course knew of several ways they might be able to get out, she was more interested in if HIS brain was working at all. She watched him carefully as he looked around the medium sized room. It was empty save for the single, very dim light hanging from the ceiling, and the ropes on the floor where they were tied up. There wasn't so much as a puddle of water or hair anywhere. There wasn't even handle on this side of the door (which was made of metal) so even if they hadn't been cleaned out of all their various hidden weapons and tools, picking the lock was out.

"Rooms clean." Literally. He looked at up, "There's vents. But I won't fit." Clint knew she was testing him. He would do the same. He looked at her, "We could just wait it out."  
"And if they left us here to die?" Clint shrugged and leaned against the wall.

She leaned against the wall on the other side of the door, "I guess we wait." She assumed it was safe to say that they had missed Wrot.

-TBC


End file.
